I'd Bring London To It's Knees For You
by DobbyRocksSocks
Summary: "God, Sherlock, you've no idea. Absolutely no idea. I was ready, willing even, to bring London to it's knees to take Moriarty out." - There's nothing John wouldn't do for Sherlock. Rated for bad language.


**Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognise.**

 **Written for;**

 **Build Your Cube** \- "I don't know what you mean."

 **100 Ways to Say I Love You** \- 100. "I love you."

* * *

 **I'd Bring London To It's Knees For You**

* * *

John clenched his fists tightly. He was fighting to keep his temper in check but it was a battle he was losing quite quickly. He'd been doing so well, but Sherlock was absolutely driving him to distraction. After everything John had done for him, albeit without Sherlock's knowledge for the most part, was it so unreasonable to just want a little bit of peace and quiet?

"Sherlock, will you just hush up? I'm tired of having the same conversation over and over. Moriarty's gone to ground, take it as a win and move on."

On a normal day, the look of offended frustration on Sherlock's face would have amused John to no end.

"You don't understand! I realise that your brain doesn't quite get past second gear, John, but even an idiot should realise and understand that Moriarty is trying to lull me into a false sense of security. Really, John, after so long I would have hoped you'd have gained at least a little intelligence."

"Enough," John interrupted. He stood up, posture tense, his eyes blazing. "For fucks sake, Sherlock, just give it a goddamn rest. Moriarty is dead. Dead. Gone. All fucking gone, so will you just shut the hell up about him for two fucking seconds!"

"What? John, how could you possibly know that?" Sherlock asked, eyes wide as he took in his friend.

"Because I put the bullet between his eyes, Sherlock."

John has never known Sherlock to be speechless before, and he took a grim satisfaction in being the one to make it happen. Of course, it didn't last long enough for John to take advantage of the silence.

"What? No! John, I would have seen, I would have known! You're entirely incapable of that kind of subterfuge!"

John shook his head. "I can't talk to you right now. I'm going out. If you want proof that Moriarty is dead, call your brother. You might not have been paying attention, Sherlock, but he was."

Sherlock moved towards the door, a lost look on his face.

"John? John, you can't just leave. I don't know what you mean, I need to understand, need to know how I missed this. I always notice you, John, always! Talk to me, please!"

John laughed, an awful humourless laugh. "Oh, now you want to talk? Now you're going to notice me? What about two months ago when I needed someone to pick me up from the hospital because I had a concussion; or last month, when I got the call that my sister had been found unconscious in a gutter at two in the morning; or how about last week, when I took a bullet graze to the ribs and you took the cab alone because you didn't want to deal with my 'dramatics'? Seriously, Sherlock, I could give less that zero fucks what you want right now. I. Am. Fucking. Done!"

Pushing past the taller man, John all but ran down the stairs and out onto the street, ducking into the nearest alleyway to escape the security camera's that Sherlock would almost certainly have Mycroft searching. He needed space and a healthy outlet for his anger. Pulling out his mobile, he quickly dialled a number from memory and raised it to his ear.

* * *

Sherlock stared after John, his heart pounding painfully in his chest, his usually organised mind in complete disarray. It was like John had just taken a bulldozer to his mind palace. By the time he'd snapped out of his shock, hours had passed. Night had fallen around him, the only light in the flat coming from the flickering streetlight outside the window. Without bothering to change that, Sherlock slumped on the sofa, his mobile in hand.

Baker street. Urgently. SH

Tossing the phone onto the cushion beside him, Sherlock massaged his temple. How had this happened? Sure, he hadn't exactly been the most attentive to John recently, but he didn't think he'd been that distracted! Though... Between Moriarty and The Woman; things were bound to slip through the cracks. That it happened to be John... Sherlock felt guilt settle in his chest. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he recalled John's last words before he walked out.

"I. Am. Fucking. Done."

Had John finally realised that Sherlock wasn't worth the effort? Had he decided that living with Sherlock was too much to deal with?

"Sherlock?"

Blinking against the sudden light, Sherlock was surprised to see Mycroft sitting in John's chair, watching him with barely concealed concern.

"Moriarty. John. Explain."

Mycroft sat back, a smirk on his lips as he realised what the problem was. "He finally told you then?"

"I'm in no mood for games," Sherlock snapped. "Tell me what I missed and don't be an unbearably smug bastard."

"Charming as always," Mycroft chuckled. "The spark notes will suffice, I believe. A month after Moriarty met you in the pool, John told you he was taking a trip for a medical conference, I believe? He, along with a few... friends, took Moriarty out that weekend. In the time since, there's been a team taking apart Moriarty's rather vast network. It was completed a couple of weeks ago."

Sherlock shook his head. "None of this makes any sense. John is John, he's not... Who are these 'friends'?"

"I don't have names," Mycroft admitted. "There are some things even my clearance doesn't cover. An educated guess would be MI6, but MI5 is also a possibility. The names were redacted from the reports long before I saw them."

"Mycroft, how did I miss this?" Sherlock asked, rubbing a hand over his face.

"I believe you allowed yourself to be distracted by the puzzle that Irene Adler posed. As you just said, John is John. You saw what you expected to see and didn't bother to delve any deeper. John used your distraction to fly under the radar, as it were.

"I'm fully aware that you're lacking in experience with sentiment, Sherlock, but I'm frankly astounded that you haven't noticed the regard has for you. Your actions, or rather your inaction lately, has wounded him rather deeply I fear, and yet, just last week, he pushed you out of harms way and took a bullet graze for you. I think it may be time for you to think about your priorities, Sherlock. Perhaps it's time to set the good doctor free before he gets irreparably damaged."

Sherlock sat up straight, glaring at his brother.

"I would never hurt John!"

"You already are, Sherlock. As I said, prioriti

* * *

es. Change yours, or let John go. What you are doing to him at the moment is cruel."

* * *

Three days passed by before John returned to Baker felt every single second of it. He only caught a glimpse of the doctor, because John didn't pause on his way to the bedroom. The overwhelming sense of relief Sherlock felt at having John home was quickly replaced with fear that John was only back to pick up his belongings. He listened carefully to every step John took, every creak of the floorboards.

Five minutes later, John was entering the living room, fresh clothes on and keys in hand.

"I've got a shift in half and hour, but I'll be going to Tesco on my way home, d'ya want anything?"

Yes again, Sherlock was completely wrong footed.

"Um... Milk?"

John nodded. "Alright. See you later."

With that, he was gone again.

Hours later, Sherlock was up, showered and dressed, reading over a case file Lestrade had asked him to look at when John returned home. Sherlock tensed at the table when John passed him to put the shopping away.

"What are you working on?" John asked amiably as he closed the fridge.

"Robberies," Sherlock replied. "Four in the last fortnight. No witnesses in the first three, and then someone was murdered last night in the fourth."

John nodded. "Fair enough."

"Do you... want to know more?" Sherlock asked, uncharacteristically unsure.

Shrugging, John replied, "Sure. I'm going to make tea and cheese on toast, do you want some?"

"Just tea," Sherlock replied. John would know Sherlock hadn't eaten for the three days he'd been gone, and Sherlock knew that his lectures on Sherlock eating stemmed from his caring about Sherlock.

"Alright."

Sherlock felt like he'd been sucker punched. John didn't care that Sherlock hadn't eaten. John didn't care.

"Actually, I'll skip the tea. I think I've got a lead to follow up."

John just smiled lightly. "Alright. Have fun."

With no option other than to leave, Sherlock swept from the kitchen. John hadn't asked if he needed help. John didn't care that Sherlock hadn't eaten. John didn't care...

 _John didn't care._

* * *

The following weeks were torturous for Sherlock. He and John were living like strangers. John didn't work on cases anymore, he barely even asked about them. Worse than that, he would disappear randomly, occasionally coming home with injuries hidden underneath his clothing.

One such night, a month and a half after John had told Sherlock he was done, Sherlock stood by the window, waiting for the doctor to return home, when one of Mycroft's cars pulled up. Mycroft stepped out, sans umbrella, before he helped John climb out of the back. Using Mycroft as a crutch, John limped towards the front door.

Sherlock was downstairs before John made it to the door, and he flung it open, worry coursing through him.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," John grunted. "Move. I need my medical bag."

Sherlock watched on as Mycroft helped John up the stairs to the living room.

"Sherlock? My bag, it's in the bedroom, right by the wardrobe. Can you fetch it, please?"

Sherlock was up and down in seconds, holding the bag out for John while Mycroft watched on with badly concealed amusement. John had shucked his trousers and was examining a deep cut in his left thigh.

"Get the alcohol wipes out," he instructed, gesturing to the bag.

Sherlock did as he was bid, watching as John stoically cleaned the wound. Turning to Mycroft, he raised his eyebrow in question.

"Knife wound," Mycroft informed him, unhelpfully.

"Well I can see that," Sherlock replied acerbically. "I was looking for more of a why?"

John pulled the medical bag towards him and routed around until he pulled out a pack of steri-strips. Sherlock couldn't take his eyes away as John applied the strips efficiently before covering the entire wound with a large plaster pad.

"Thanks for the hand home, Mycroft. I can take it from here."

Mycroft nodded. "It was the very least I could do. I'll see you both soon."

Sherlock paid his brother no mind as he left. When the two were alone, John sighed.

"Ask your questions," he offered, tiredly.

"What happened and... why are you wearing that?" he asked, gesturing to the fitted Tom Ford suit John was wearing.

"One of the staff at this evening's gala was paid to take out any of the prominent government officials in attendance. He chanced a shot at Mycroft, but I manage to disarm him before he could do any damage. He got a lucky shot at my leg."

"Why were you even there, John?"

John rolled his eyes. "I know you're smarter than this, Sherlock."

Sherlock growled in frustration. "I can deduce you anymore," he admitted quietly. "Whenever I try, it... hurts."

John frowned. "What hurts?"

"You cared, and now you don't and it's muddled everything up and every time I try and deduce you, it hurts, John. I don't... I can't..."

"Calm down," John ordered quietly. "First of all, you seem to be under the impression that I don't care about you, and you couldn't be further from the truth."

"But -"

"No. No buts. Tonight was a favour to someone I hold with the highest respect. It should have been routine, it was my own fault. I was distracted."

"Distracted by what?"

"Mycroft. I didn't realise he would be there, and he mentioned that he'd extended the invitation to you. I was worried you'd be put in unnecessary danger."

"I'm confused," Sherlock admitted. He sat down by John's legs and he cautiously leant forward to rest his head against John's knee. "If you're worries about me, why have you stopped coming on cases with me?"

"Because I'm a coward," John replied flatly. "I nearly lost you to Moriarty, Sherlock. He got into your head. Miss Adler did the same thing. I can't, I won't watch that happen for a third time. You - God, Sherlock, you've no idea. Absolutely no idea. I was ready, willing even, to bring London to it's knees to take Moriarty out. I told you I was the one who shot him. What I didn't tell you, was that I had him, unarmed, on his knees. I could have had him brought in and I didn't. It wasn't self defence, it was cold blooded murder. And the worst part? I'd do the same thing over and over again for you."

Sherlock stared at John for a moment before he smiled.

"You love me."

It wasn't a question, but John nodded anyway, running a hand through Sherlock's curls.

"You love me," Sherlock repeated, wonder filling him. "John, you love me!"

John cracked a smile. "I do. With everything in me."

Sherlock stood fluidly, catching John's hand in his own. Helping John to his feet, Sherlock guided them both to his bedroom. Methodically, he stripped John to his boxers before shredding his own clothes. Pressing his face briefly into John's hair, he helped John into bed before he followed, crawling over the sheets until he was beside John, carefully wrapping himself around the smaller man.

"Sherlock?"

"Shh," Sherlock murmured, kissing John gently. "I love you too. Sleep now, John. We'll talk more tomorrow."

Sherlock waited until John relaxed against him before sighing contentedly, nuzzling his face against John's shoulder. He knew they had a lot to talk about, but for now, he was perfectly content to have John wrapped in his arms, right where he belonged. No matter what else happened, as long as John was beside him, everything would turn out in the end

 _Because John loved him._


End file.
